


Crepuscule

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: All the bad behavior!, Angst, Cannibalism, Dreams, Horror, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Megalomania, Narcissism, Tuunbaq - Freeform, Victorian Attitudes, maybe lead, maybe supernatural?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: Solomon Tozer despairs; Cornelius Hickey dreams.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Crepuscule

_ 17th Feb.; Comstock was discovered at some distance coming towards the tent. It had been before proposed to Smith by Payne, to shoot him; but poor Smith like ourselves, dare do no other than remain upon the side of neutrality. _

_ Oliver, whom the reader will recollect as one of the wretches concerned in the mutiny, hurried on shore, and with Payne and others, made preparations to put him to death. After loading a number of muskets they stationed themselves in front of the tent, and waited his approach—a bushy spot of ground intervening, he did not make his appearance until within a short distance of the tent, which, as soon as he saw, drew his sword and walked quick towards it, in a menacing manner; but as soon as he saw a number of the muskets levelled at him, he waved his hand, and cried out, “don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me! I will not hurt you!” At this moment they fired, and he fell!—Payne fearing he might pretend to be shot, ran to him with an axe, and nearly severed his head from his body! There were four muskets fired at him, but only two balls took effect, one entered his right breast, and passed out near the back bone, the other through his head. _

_ Thus ended the life of perhaps as cruel, blood-thirsty, and vindictive a being as ever bore the form of humanity. _

_ Excerpt from an account of the Globe Mutiny _

***

Feasting on what was left of Billy Gibson had been a mistake: if anything, Solomon Tozer is hungrier than he ever has been since leaving Greenhithe so long ago. The steward’s last serving had awakened a ravenousness that he had long thought to be dormant. Even now, he licks his teeth and sucks on the little pebble he keeps in his dry mouth. Mistaken indeed.

He had tried to drown his resurgent appetite by drinking obscene amounts of water, freshly melted by Diggle in one of his improvised portable stoves, and all that gave him were a series of aching cramps that sent him all but fleeing to Cornelius Hickey’s tent—to sanctuary. He couldn’t permit himself to show any signs of weakness to the other men, for, like wolves circling a sheep, they would fall on him if they so much as glimpsed out of the corner of their eyes the slightest hint of vulnerability. And so he crunched across the gravel and shale and didn’t stop until he was within the canvas confines of Hickey’s abode. 

The erstwhile caulker’s mate was there, and he’s still here, sitting cross-legged in his formless greatcoat when Tozer opens his eyes. He isn’t surprised, and neither is Hickey when his deep blue eyes flicker over his prone form, before returning to where they stare dispassionately at the emptiness between them. He shouldn’t be surprised, but, nevertheless, he watches Hickey with renewed interest. 

In all the time following Gibson's death (Tozer still cannot call it what it is) Hickey has been in this tent; sometimes receiving visitors, most of the time in complete seclusion. Tozer, believing himself to be acting subtly, had shyly peeked in on numerous occasions, and Hickey would always be there, still within the folds of his formless greatcoat, sitting in the same position, facing the same side, his long and lean face framed by the sallow, dusty light filtering in through the faded canvas. At first, Tozer had taken this as a sign of grief, or a kind of self-inflicted castigation, but he soon realized it was far more different than that. Making up some flimsy excuse, Tozer would invite himself in under the pretense of informing Hickey of recent developments and the morale of each particular man (Everyone was seemingly content; except for Goodsir and Hodgson, who had, quite understandably, caught a bad case of the morbs on top of all their other physical ailments.) Hickey, when he even bothered to acknowledge Tozer's existence, would bob his head and light himself another smoke with a lucifer. Hickey's flesh resembled that of the rolled up paper—taut, brittle, fibrous, eerily white and translucent on the edges, and burning with an infernal heat. Hickey never accepted what little food Tozer offered—whether it was a surfeit of steward or a handful of moldy biscuits—and drank very little. The only time Tozer saw him outside the tent was when he went out to relieve himself, or to breath in the cool, metallic air. Sometimes, at night, (or the faint dimness that passes for night in the summer of ‘48), he caught sight of a ghostly figure flittering along the limits of his vision, and he was never sure whether it was Hickey prowling around in his cotton underwear or a flight of fancy. As of late, Tozer has been having a hard time telling the difference between the real and unreal, and is still unable to tell which is preferable. 

Solomon Tozer opens his mouth to speak, but a hollow rattling is all that comes out. Hickey raises a pale eyebrow—he resembles the faded petals of a wildflower pressed within the pages of a leatherbound book; his formerly crimson hair has been bleached by prolonged exposure to the unrelenting sun and the merciless wind, now appearing to be blonde, reminding Tozer of all the gorse choking the gentle slopes of the English countryside. When was the last time he saw a blade of grass? Or such an abundance of green for that matter? There was a girl in the barracks who wore flowers in her hair, and he’d smell them whenever he held her down, the loose petals forming a halo around her flushed face; he catches the scent, an overpowering and intoxicating perfume, and he’s cut loose.  _ This must be what opium’s like _ …

_ Wasn’t Hodgson in China? _

Tozer opens his eyes again, immediately sensing minute changes in the air; he also notices that the interior lining of the tent, instead of its usual gaslight yellow, has been replaced by a stained white, reminding him of the taut skin drawn across a bandsman’s drum. He suddenly lifts himself up on hands and knees, scrambling for his bayonet or any other kind of blade within reach, but it’s darker now, and what he grabs is not the cold promise of steel, but a knobby knee wrapped within coarse fabric. He looks up into Hickey’s eyes, bright with amusement. 

“Don’t worry,” Hickey says, “I’ve been watching over you, Sol.”

Tozer lets out a sigh of relief and half-sits, half lays down, resting on a propped elbow, his body and face turned to Hickey. “How long?”

“A couple hours or so.” Hickey shrugs. “Or more…it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

“It matters a whole damn lot, Cornelius,” Tozer grumbles. He glances around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in light. In a corner, catching attention like a beacon, are his white cross belts, and tangled amongst them is his red sergeant’s sash. How bright it shone the day he received it, how proud he was to wear it around his waist; it’s in tatters now, mere rust-colored skeins on the verge of unravelling, discarded arteries collecting dust in a half-forgotten space. He reaches over, sifts through the pile, and withdraws his bayonet: a pinprick of shine in the gloom—he’s kept it well oiled and sharp, he’s seldom had anything better to do. He ferries it away within the folds of his cold-weather slops, formerly of Helpman’s chest.  _ (Is the clerk-in-charge still alive?  _ he cannot help but ask himself whenever he runs his hands over them,  _ was he mauled by the...thing...in Terror Camp? Like poor Collins… _ ) He pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees, bracing himself against the memory, the sight…He shudders.

Hickey, with that canny way of his, seems to read his thoughts."What did it look like? The soul I mean..." 

Whenever Tozer stood at attention in the barracks for inspection, he'd do so in a large drill yard where the sun would beat upon the flagstones and create a humid haze—a  _ mirage _ borne from summertime heat. That's what he tells Hickey, and, feeling somehow that he has betrayed the late Mr. Collins by sharing such an intimate detail of his demise, he turns away in shame and pulls a handful of canvas back, and he looks out at the camp. The sky is a chalky, grey-blue like seawater seconds before the freeze, and the ground is an undulating charcoal expanse. Everything in this twilight has been softened, its creases smoothed out and its angles mollified by swathes of shadow. The mutineers, most of them anyway, circle the camp. They are the picquets: vigilant sentries whose soul mission is to warn of attack by shouting or firing in the air, all handpicked by Tozer himself at Hickey's bequest. 

_ But what good will they do if the thing on the ice comes rolling up for a chat? _

_ Don't think, Sol, just do.  _

Hickey's face has adopted a more animated expression; a shadow of what he wore a few years ago, but it encourages Tozer. "Let's leave this place Cornelius." Tozer takes hold of Hickey's hand and squeezes it as hard as he can. "Let's go back to the ships." He takes no measures to hide the fear in his voice. "You must see reason."

"Crozier left behind a skeleton crew on  _ Terror, _ " Hickey says. 

"Then we'll go to  _ Erebus. _ "

"Flying back to the nest…" Hickey observes, revealing hints of rueful smile. "You are aware, love, of what happened to the propeller? Or did Collins fail to inform you before—"

"Stop it." Tozer feels his cheeks burning, and it's not a fever. "There's food we left behind in Terror Camp, and there must be some still in  _ Erebus's  _ hold...There might be a thaw, and we can row our boats to Fury Beach. Hodgson can navigate…"

Hickey frowns. "Do you presume, Sergeant Tozer, that I don't know what's best for all of us?"

Tozer blinks, unsure whether this is really the young man who had his arse whipped raw in front of the assembled  _ Terrors  _ last year (it was last year, wasn't it? Time has gone into a state of flux ever since they left the ships…) The demeaning reference to what he used to be is even more consternating. 

"I just wanted to share some advice."

"And it has been duly noted," Hickey says, spreading his arms in a magnanimous gesture. "Now that I've heard you out, you will do the same for me."

_ About time!  _ Tozer can't remember the last time they've had a meaningful discussion, or any kind of worthwhile exchange for that matter. The pebble is bruising his sensitive gums, so he spits it out and focuses all of his attention on Hickey. In his bony fingers, he takes out a rolled up smoke and lights up, illuminating his face, Tozer, and the clutter all around them. Tozer shakes his head and says:

"I don't know how you still have any tobacco left."

Hickey smiles that special smile —half self-deprecating, half mocking, and all mischief. "You've shared some of it with me. I remember finding some in my cot. A pleasant surprise, really."

Tozer fails to hide his surprise. "How did you know?"

"Deduction, and that's all I'll say on the matter." Hickey takes a long drag on his cigarette and lifts his chin, blowing dissipating rings of smoke over Tozer's head. "Mr. Des Voeux, I fear,” he continues at length, “does not keep our best interests at heart. I want you to dispose of him.”

“Permanently?” 

“Is there any other way?”

Before Tozer’s very eyes, Hickey’s turning opaque again, withdrawing to that inner place that preoccupies him so. The larger man hurries to regain his mate’s attention. “I can do it, sure, when do you want it done?”

“Whenever…” Hickey is suddenly losing interest in this line of conversation. 

Tozer prods him: “But there must be a cause for alarm.”

“I have it on good authority that him and Mr. Hoar engage in clandestine conversations —they are, obviously, plotting against us. They are Erebites, Sol, not like you and I. They’re only out for themselves,” Hickey says this without the slightest hint of passion, as if reciting the words from an uninteresting script. “They won’t try anything ‘till they’ve got the confidence. And that won’t be ‘till later. You’ve got time, Sol.” 

The request doesn’t bother Tozer in the slightest. Des Voeux is a cowardly cunt more worried about saving his paltry scalp from nonexistent natives than actually pulling his own weight. Ever since coming back from that ill-fated sledge trip with Gore, Des Voeux had become absolutely terrified of the thing on the ice and anything else he considered to be 'uncivilized.' The Esquimaux, he was convinced, were going to give him the Irving treatment in retaliation for what happened to that old man Silence was with, and thus he decided that the bodies of his fellow mutineers would serve as so much more protection between him and an agonizing fate. (Another possible factor in Des Voeux’s throwing in his lot with them was a one-on-one encounter with Hickey at Carnivale, but Tozer tended to skirt around that possibility…) Des Voeux was on watch, Tozer knew, and when he wasn’t the Erebite tended to hole himself up somewhere with a shotgun, vigilant, but one of these days he’d have to give into the exhaustion plaguing them all, and then Tozer would strike. He’d enjoy carving him up.

“He’s not the only one,” Hickey says, abruptly. “There’s the question of our Manson.”

“Magnus?” Tozer can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “He’s done nothing.” 

“Exactly,” Hickey says, carelessly waving his cigarette aground, leaving behind an agitated tracery of smoke and specks of ash hanging around him. “There’s no such thing as an innocent man. The more blameless he is, the more he has to hide.”

“We’re talking about fucking Magnus, Cornelius…” 

“He’s impressionable, and he has ties to the...other camp. He can be swayed, and we must act before that can happen.”

Tozer shakes his head. “The men won’t like it.”

“Then make it an accident.” Hickey rises and rubs the side of his face against his free hand. “Must I do everything? I suffered the burden of putting all this together. The very least you can do for me, love, is lend a hand.” Hickey smirks down at him. “You’ve enjoyed mine for long enough, haven’t you?”

Tozer mumbles a string of choice words that are none too charitable and goes outside to get some fresh air. Black terrain and a pallid sky are there to greet him, along with the appropriated tents and boats laying around like discarded toys, incongruous in such a landscape. More out of place are the picquets crunching around in their desultory circuits. What Tozer knows, and the picquets sure as hell know, is that there is pitifully little they can do if the beast looms over the horizon and invites itself to a dance. The least they can do is distract it while the others run away, and Tozer can see their undisguised resentment towards him in their sullen strides and accusing glances in his direction. Such ill-will is an unseen stigma he must bear, even if he's aware that not a few of them would mind plugging a musket ball in his back. 

Those happy few who are not currently on watch congregate in the center of camp where a table and a couple of benches have been placed. A scraggly George Hodgson sits on the edge of the table; the voluminous navy-blue greatcoat he still wears hangs over his emaciated frame; the dull brass buttons with their faded anchors are all askew and the cloth's dye is beginning to fade. Any authority the coat once projected is eroding before Tozer's very eyes, and better reflects weakness than strength. Tozer has on his redcoat under his slops—to provide warmth, or at least that's what he tells himself. Hodgson's naked, upraised hands are highly visible against the dark; his slender, skeletal fingers, Tozer clearly sees, are rhythmically rising and falling, as if lost in the creation of an invisible weave, and, when Tozer spots Magnus Manson sitting on a bench, keenly watching Hodgson’s fingers, he realizes that Hodgson is playing an imaginary clavier. Manson follows with rapt attention, tapping his foot and bobbing his head in tandem with Hodgon’s movements, seemingly able to listen to the sliding scales. Manson wears no coat, and his lambskin waistcoat is unbuttoned, exposing his powerful chest; one elbow is propped on the table, the forearm in its grimy striped shirtsleeve is standing straight up, and Tozer sees that the cuff’s button has come loose, freeing the thick wrist. Manson props his chin on his large hand, leaning in.

Perhaps this is the real reason why Hickey wants Manson dead. This particular Terror still has a decent amount of weight on him, especially around the thighs and pelvis and ribs, most likely, and his body would be able to sustain them all for a considerable amount of time. Hickey cannot directly ask a man to offer himself up as a meal—he can ask everyone to draw straws, and no more. But, say, if Manson were to accidentally fall headfirst off a pressure ridge while on a scouting mission with Tozer...why waste a valuable resource? 

He catches Manson's eyes—they are wide and dark, doelike, and Tozer clearly sees in them that he can not bring himself to harm this man. He feels a sudden stab of guilt over how he, Manson’s mate, a fellow Terror, could plot his comrade’s demise; how he could size up the seaman’s body like a piece of meat at a butcher’s shop. With shame comes anger. He’s mad at Hickey for putting him up to this, for causing him to even think about committing such a vile and underhanded act, but, most of all, he’s mad at himself. He's thrown off the chains of a drunken tyrant in favor of the silk ties of a little sea lawyer. The faces have changed, but in many ways, the affair's the same. 

_ Bloody hell,  _ he thinks. 

Tozer mutters those two words when he sees Des Voeux's cheerless orbit inexorably bringing him to within speaking distance. The Erebite is a particularly peculiar-looking fucker: his visage is both haggard and juvenile, either he carries the face of an old man or that of a boy's. Right now, this decrepit Janus in baggy duck trousers and gritty shirtsleeves passes right by Tozer. The Erebite's shoulders are hunched and he leans forward, showing no signs of stopping; the heavy shadows gathering around his eyes and hollow cheeks gives him an exaggerated, mask-like, appearance. 

"You've got to sleep sometime, Charles."

"I'm a real light fucking sleeper." Hesitantly, as if knowing it's against his better judgement, Des Voeux grinds to a halt. "Say, when are you going to grace our watch with your presence?"

"When I'm good and ready," Tozer says, drawing out the words, carefully reading Des Voeux's petulant expression, "I've got urgent matters to discuss with Mr. Hickey."

"The hierophant, as Mr. Bridgen's would've noted, and his, well, to put it politely, his... _ understudy _ ." He complements the last word with that special sneer his thin curling lips are so fond of making. Des Voeux's features are well-suited for expressing his innate surliness; one might say they are naturally inclined. "Does he wish to convey to us anything of note?"

"Not to you."

"Uh-oh," Des Voeux gasps with affected surprise. "I see. And I was hoping he'd have a task for me." 

"You can close your eyes for a bit."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Des Voeux scowls, and, before Tozer can say anything, the mouth of the Erebite twitches and his hooded eyes alight with a queer thought. “Have you ever sampled French cuisine, Tozer? Because it seems to me that you are harboring a serious craving for some _Beef_ _à la Voeux._ You won’t find that in Woolwich, I assure you.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll find out right here, right now,” Tozer says, calmly, feeling the weight of the scabbarded bayonet in a breast pocket, its comforting hardness pressing near his own heart.

“Come on, Tozer. I’m just larking about—” Des Voeux stops abruptly; a ripple crosses his black, liquid eyes. “If your looking for a bit of diversion,” he whispers, conspiratorially, “go ask Hickey about the  _ Tuunbaq _ .”

“A dunnage...bag?”

“So he didn’t tell you?” Des Voeux solemnly shakes his head in mock disapproval. “How unfortunate. I would’ve thought that your lilly boy told you everything. I highly recommend going inside that tent of yours and making an inquiry...and then we’ll see who sleeps more soundly.”

Des Voeux saunters off, evidently pleased with their short interaction, and Tozer just barely resists the urge to follow in his wake and bash the back of his head. His ambivalence—all the doubt, shame, anger, confusion, guilt, and flurried mixtures in between—undergoes an alchemical transformation, distilling itself into pure rage. Tozer’s been bawled out, he’s been slapped, he’s been the victim of untold numbers of practical jokes, and he’s always inflicted likewise on others, but he’s never, and would not ever, bring himself to take advantage of another human being’s kindness. Their are the Articles that the Commandant used to read when everyone was on parade, and then there's the immemorial custom of the service, the tacit law existing between all ratings, from wardroom to forecastle, embracing all in its reach— _ though shalt not fuck over thy mate _ , it said, and Tozer and anyone else possessing any scrap of decency followed it to the letter. Despite his questionable ignorance when it came to nautical parlance, Hickey had more than observed this rule, refusing to rat out Thomas Armitage, the  _ Terror’s  _ gunroom steward, after his disastrous kidnapping of Lady Silence. But now, the proverbial chair is gone and Tozer is falling flat on his arse. What is this  _ Tuunbaq _ , and more importantly, why didn’t Hickey tell him about it? 

Cornelius Hickey doesn’t react in the slightest when Tozer angrily bursts into the crampedness of their tent. “I’m not doing it,” Tozer’s voice is a low growl, “I’m not plugging Manson and I’m not laying a hand on Voivode or whatever the fuck his name is until...until,” the words are an untidy tumoult pouring out of his chapped lips, his face goes red, and he has to keep his voice from trembling, “until you tell me what this Toon-bog is and why the hell I should care.” He falls to his knees, worn out by his outburst. Last year, he could’ve yelled and stamped his feet for hours, but now there’s so little food left, and he can’t help but wear himself out so easily... “Is this some sort of trick? Are you laughing at me?” he presses Hickey with less force than he would’ve preferred. “I demand an explanation, Cornelius.”

Hickey resides in a still-life; there isn’t any movement within nor without; he’s just blank. The end of a cigarette smolders between index and thumb. Tozer stares at Hickey’s blanched face, silently willing for a response, for any kind of answer, afraid that his mate, confidant (in matters equally practical and sentimental), and present interrogatee has literally petrified in his absence. Tozer’s breath is a hoarse billowing; Christ, he’s tired, there’s been times when he nearly swooned while out taking a piss. The embarrassment he feels is mollifying, his anger subdues itself to a simmer, but that doesn’t mean Hickey isn’t liable to receive a good scalding. 

“Dune-bok...tuhnbag,” Tozer rasps, “why won’t you answer me?”

The hierophant’s lips curl, showing off small, porcelain teeth. He bows his head and rubs his nose, still baring his teeth. “Sol,” he sighs, “Oh, Sol.” His face rises from his chest, smiling. “You don’t already know?”

“Know what?” Tozer asks. He’s not upset anymore, he’s too confused and done with everything to feel anything but exasperation. “Is everyone here dedicated to yanking my chain? Out with it now.”

“Oh, Sol. Oh, Sol, Oh, my silly Solly,” Hickey says through his happy rictus. “You’re crying over nothing.” He offers his cigarette to Tozer, and the frayed lobsterback accepts it with a shaking hand. Hickey holds Tozer’s hand in his own, steadying the cigarette for him, and one of his bare fingers brushes against his puckered lips. “There, there.” Tozer blows out an unsteady stream from his nostrils, calming down, and Hickey slowly, reluctantly perhaps, lets go. “ _ Tuunbaq,  _ Sol,  _ Tuun-baq _ , it’s the name of the beast.”

“H-how do you know?”

“Lady Silence told me, but only after I nabbed her, you know.”

“And you never told me.”

Hickey guffaws; it’s the most emotion he’s shown in a long while. “What’s in a name, really?” 

“A sort of meaning, I guess.”

“And what do you suppose  _ Tuunbaq _ means?” Hickey frowns and knits his brows. “Eater of souls? No, that would be too direct. Surely, it must mean something far more profound.”

“Maybe that’s not even how you pronounce it,” Tozer offers. This is odd, Hickey, this  _ Tuunbaq  _ business, this entire bloody situation, but Tozer desperately wants to revive a connection, no matter how tenuous it may be, with this strange, diminutive man.  __

“No”—Hickey’s eyes flash with something Tozer hasn’t seen in ages: conviction—”I know it’s pronounced  _ Tuunbaq _ . I cannot be wrong, Sol. You weren’t there; I was, and that’s it.”

“Well, I most humbly beg your pardon,  _ Petty  _ Officer Mr. Hickey.”

This blatant sarcasm slides off Hickey like oil on water. He must be so filled with it himself, Tozer thinks, that he has become inured to outward signs of it. Hickey’s eyes assume their habitual vacancy; his lips move, so imperceptibly that Tozer doesn’t notice until he gives voice to his wanton musings. 

“ _ Tuunbaq _ ,” he says with such deliberation, such carefulness, that he may well be reciting the name of a lover. “ _ Tuunbaq _ .” The twin syllables, softly spoken, seem to possess the speckled stillness. Every time they are repeated, the stray dust motes hanging in the air quiver in fear—and so does Tozer. “ _ Tuunbaq _ .” 

“You’ve certainly got a tongue for it.”

“What does it look like, the  _ Tuunbaq _ ?”

Tozer takes a long, tremulous breath. “You’ve already seen it.”

“But once…” Hickey says, wistfully. “It saw me, Sol, it  _ saw _ me. Across the snow and ice, ignoring Silence’s ghastly rigmarole, it’s eyes met mine. It was…” Hickey hesitates. “Profound. Yes, that’s exactly what it was. But I couldn’t see the body. It was so dark and cold and all the others were itching to go back to  _ Terror _ . But you, Sol,” and Hickey’s voice drops, sounding slightly envious, “you’ve seen it three times, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Three times two many.” Tozer tossed the cigarette outside. “Aye, I was in Franklin’s blind, and I already told you about Collins.”

“Don’t forget Heather,” Hickey says.

“I haven’t.” 

Tozer examines his hands, all calloused and claggy, hands that held Heather in his times of need. 

But were not strong enough.

“Well?”

“It all happened so fast,” Tozer says, his eyes clouding over, “in the blind it...snatched a man away, just like that”—Tozer makes a plucking motion with his right hand—”the blind flew up, like an unstaked tent flying in the wind, and...I don’t really know what happened after that. I never saw it.”

Hickey snorts and scratches his nose. “Franklin must have. What about Heather?”

“You don’t understand, Cornelius, this thing is fucking fast. We were passing by one another amidships, where we had that canvas set up for winter, and I exchanged a word with him...and a breath later there was this tearing...I got an impression of a hand…”

“Not a paw?”

“No, it was massive, not clumsy. It didn’t swat at Heather, it tore, tore a quarter of his fucking skull off. I fired into the gap it made, but I think it was already gone by then…” Tozer rubs his eyes. “Do we really have to talk about this?”

"Of course not, love. Not if you don't want to." Hickey stretches his legs out and reclines on A sailcloth covered sea chest. "C'mere."

Tozer, moving on hands and knees, does so and lays his head on Hickey's lap. Tozer feels Hickey's hands gliding through his hair, running his fingers along the contours of his skull like an Edinburgh phrenologist, travelling all the way down his scalp until they caress the nape of his neck. Tozer reaches behind and wraps an arm around Hickey's waist, squeezing until he feels the proud hardness of his hips. They seem to have gotten more pronounced, more jutting, since the last time they did this, and that had been too long ago. 

"I didn't mean to make you angry, Sol," Hickey croons while petting Tozer's forehead, easing away the lines of worry. "I didn't mean to."

Tozer trembles and lets out a shaky breath. Only in this tent, in this flimsy sanctuary, can he do this. “I’m not afraid of death,” Tozer admits, “but this waiting, this not knowing when it’ll happen, that bothers me.” He buries his face into navy blue cloth so that only his lips are exposed. “I can’t help it. My nerves are all shot. Angry thoughts, that’s the only thing that comes easily. I just get so mad...so troubled.”

“We’re all having a hard time right now.” Hickey smooths his mate’s hair. “You can’t help it.”

“When I went out and saw Manson I...I thought terrible things. I caught myself sizing him up.”

“Pragmatism’s not a sin, Sol.”

“But gluttony is. You remember the bullocks we had on board? How we slaughtered them and hung the beef from the mainstay...It was supposed to be saved for Christmas but we ended up eating it early because it was all gonna go bad in the heat before then…”

“How can I forget?” Hickey says. Tozer frees his face and peers up at him. “The scuppers ran red that day”—Hickey licks his lips with a dry tongue; his eyes are a pair of illuminated skylights leading to an unattainable world—”and the smell…” He sighs. “It was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, that’s what ran through my mind. But, God, I was staring at my fellow man.”

“You can’t let the morbs get to you. Don’t want to end up like the good doctor.” 

“But it’s not just that.” 

"Oh?"

"It's this beastie business." Tozer shivers and Hickey wraps his arms around him, holding him closer. Tozer takes this opportunity to grab Hickey's eyes with his own, forcing him to recognize his presence, his needs…"You won't stop talking about it. You're obsessed with it."

"Is that so?" Hickey sounds faintly amused. 

"Indeed so. It's like you want to have congress with the damned thing."

Hickey cocks his head, a curiously vacant expression on his face. Tozer finds himself holding his breath and tensing up. He’s been in situations like this, the circumstances wildly differing but the overwhelming atmosphere always the same—the crystal clarity of impending disaster combined with the sense that everything is slowing down around him, that time itself is coming to a rest, and the dread, there’s always the dread. But there are no horrid oaths or white-knuckled fists, no flashing blades or bared teeth, just words, spoken freely and openly. 

“I wouldn’t put it in such a vulgar manner,” Hickey says, “but you’re not wrong.”

“What?”

“At ease, sergeant.” Hickey lays a firm open-palmed hand on Tozer’s forehead and pushes him back down so he can rest on his thighs. “I’ve been figuring on this for awhile now, a long time, and I’m just about ready to go about it. There’s just a few more things we need to do.”

“I don’t think there is going to be a ‘we’ if you don’t tell me what the hell this is all about.” 

“Didn’t I tell you that the  _ Tuunbaq _ saw me?” Hickey softly chastises, as if Tozer is an uncomprehending but favored student. “And I saw  _ it _ . In that moment, in a single breath, I saw it for what it was, just as it truly saw me. Blanky boasted of making a similar connection to the beast, but I did the very same thing, and I’ve got a leg up on him. Don’t see, Sol, that’s a sign...It rejected Silence, killed the others, but not me.  _ It wants me _ .” 

“Wants to eat you, more like.”

“You’re not listening to me, you’re not listening to me at all,” Hickey says vehemently. “I peered into the  _ Tuunbaq’s _ gimlet eyes and I saw how foolish it all was: the thieving, the killing, the fucking, the sailing, this whole venture.” Hickey spreads his arms in a gesture encompassing the entire interior, and all that lay beyond. “This entire expedition is nothing but a farce dreamt up by a senile dodderer. For all his books and letters, he had not the slightest idea of what kind of power is out here. Old Barrow’s thought we’d find an open ocean, but we found so much more. Something far more magnificent.”

“You’re talking about a man-eater.”

“I’m talking about an angel, or something like it. I’ve consulted the volumes in  _ Terror’s _ library—Eibon’s book in particular, along with a few treatises by Agrippa and a couple written by our Dee—but they only confirmed what I knew all along, indeed, what I’ve known my whole life. There is no such thing as coincidence, everything is planned out of its own accord.” Hickey’s hands are no longer on Tozer (much to his consternation), but are waving all about. Riding out all of these outrageious statements is a queer little smile that, while it goes under a flurry of words sometimes, always resurfaces. “I’m destined for greatness, and our survival absolutely depends on my mastering the  _ Tuunbaq _ .”

“And what the fuck are we going to do with a tune-block?! Cornelius, are you out of your damn mind?” Tozer jerks away from Hickey and scrabbles away. “Are you aware of the words coming out that bloody mouth of yours?”

"Never before have I seen things so clearly," Hickey says, staring through and past him. "There are great things hidden under the earth, below the waves and ice, high on the mountains, and in the sky, or else right in front of us, hidden behind the veil of our ignorance. I have pierced the veil and found one of these things that's been waiting for me, and together we will carve out a kingdom whose glory and majesty will set the Hannoverian vermin quaking in their crystal palaces. Those who have called me a rat, who've always looked down on me, will come crawling from halfway across the world to give me tribute. All the kaisers, tsars, kings and queens, sultans and emperors, will crawl over each other like maggots in their haste to recognize my dominion. You will be the captain of my royal guard, Sol, and you'll have the privilege of witnessing my ascendance. Goodsir will be our court physician and Diggle will be our cook...or food-taster. All others will be put to death…

"The natives will have no choice but to bow down when they see the mighty  _ Tuunbaq _ at my side, because what else can they do? I will give them powder and shot, and assemble a mighty army. We will reman the ships, cross the Atlantic, and put all who refuse to see my sovereignty to the sword. And then I'll go to the Orient—"

"And do you think the beast will take a white man for a master?" Tozer interrupts, unwilling to weather anymore of this insane drivel. 

"I am like no man." Hickey sniffs and flinches. He sounds and appears to be hurt and confused. "Anyway, it's not like being an Eskie saved Silence's old man from catching a gooly in the belly."

"I'm sorry. I just think you've been having a little too much lead in your diet. Either that or the service started recruiting out of Bedlam when I wasn't looking." 

Hickey’s eyes narrow to points, his black pupils all that’s visible between veiny eyelids, and he exhales sharply,  _ hissing _ . His hackles rise and his shoulders spread and roll underneath the greatcoat, making it resemble the scarred hide of a live and angry thing. Never before has Tozer seen such pure, unadulterated hatred in a man, much less a beast. His breath hitches in his throat, and his hand rises to his chest where the bayonet is nestled in its inner folds, close to his heart. Good God, he’s scared, and he sincerely doubts seventeen inches of honed steel can stop the caulker’s mate now. Unannounced and unbidden, Lieutenant Irving comes to mind, accompanied by all those horrible lies told by his own captain…

_ Lies? _

Cornelius Hickey reaches out with impossibly long arms and cups Tozer's face in his hands, his palms searing his cheeks, and he does not resist when the Terror's long face is a breath away from his; he feels fingers interlinking behind his skull and, dumb, uncomprehending, he sees his distorted reflection growing larger in a dark well surrounded by curves of bone. 

"What meaning is in a name?" Hickey asks, smooth, sibilant, never rising above a steady breath. "Solomon was a wise king. The wisdom of Solomon, eh? But you are no king. You didn't even have the pretension to dress up as one. You draped the surcoat of a knight over your shoulders, at Carnivale, and gave your crown to a man with half his brains leaking out."

Tozer is too stunned to feel the stab at his heart. One of his knees is sore; it's crushing something hard and unpleasant—a spare stake, he realizes, belatedly, and he wonders how an object so mundane can exist in the midst of such an extraordinary moment. 

"You made a mistake then, Sol, as you have now in doubting me. You'll come to know this very soon."

"What really happened to Irving, Cornelius?" Tozer asks without really meaning to. 

The question hangs unanswered. 

It was like him to do such foolish things. He finds it hard to believe that in a different time, in a different place, in a different reality, that was how he worked out the world around him. He was a carpenter's apprentice in what he now regards as his halcyon days, and he reckons himself to have been a good one—the wistful nostalgia for those long gone days notwithstanding. He had no manuals to teach him (he didn’t even know his letters yet), and his ostensible mentor was too taciturn and ill-tempered to be be an approachable source of guidance, so he taught himself. He nicked his fingers more often than not, and the first table he made may’ve looked more like a torturer’s rack, but he eventually succeeded, and did a very fine job of it. He took pride in his work. But the prospect of slaving away in a workshop, pouring his sweat and blood into a lovely creation, like a beautiful chair, all smoothed rosewood and aromatic varnish, just to see it taken away from him so the corpulent arse of a toff could sit and fart in it all day long, did not suit him in the slightest. And so he joined the Royal Marines. They seemed to him to be more glamorous than the regular army, what with the ‘Royal’ designation and all that, and besides, it wasn’t like he was going to say no to a bright red coat, steady pay, and guaranteed lodging and meals. But what really mattered was the opportunity to rise by merit, through his own strength alone, his efforts recognized by men he would be proud to serve under. He enlisted in Bath and was whisked away by a recruiting party soon after. He never looked back. 

It was hard at first, damned bloody hard. He couldn’t tell right from left on the parade ground; he kept forgetting to pipeclay his crossbelts, polish his buttons and shako badge, clean his coat, and his company’s colour sergeant always took a sadistic joy in singling him out during inspection and ridiculing him in front of everyone. The barracks were no better than a debtor’s prison, and he spent plenty of time loitering around the canteen, bored as hell more often than not. He stumbled through his first year, doing everything wrong, and he courted with the idea of desertion. But he persevered, not out of any sense of idealism, but because he wanted to prove wrong all those bastards who had ever doubted him. He learned from his mistakes and endeavored to be a model marine. He made corporal in ‘37, under the auspices of Victoria’s succession to the throne. He was stern yet fair, leading by example instead of instilling fear, and he left the canteen and its flowing rum rations behind, spending his free time learning how to read and write, replacing drink with ink. He was promoted to sergeant in ‘44. When the commandant forwarded him to  _ Terror _ , he was genuinely happy, seeing it as a once in a lifetime adventure that would serve as the capstone of his career… 

He was supposed to be a fucking colour sergeant by now…

“Does it really matter?” Hickey drags Tozer out of his reverie. “He’s gone, and we’re here, my dog of war. We’re here,  _ together _ , and that’s all that matters.” 

Tozer was never one for books or lectures, relying instead on his slow intuition. He was always able to figure others out, discerning the vital lines running beneath the skin, lacing through bone and gristle—the endless thread binding a person’s soul, animating their limbs like a marionette. His competence as a leader of men depended on his ability to do so. Working men like clay in his hands, feeling and shaping, pressing his thumbs into their softness, his fingertips caressing over planes refusing to yield, Tozer divined the true natures of those around him. Friends and enemies were revealed to him in this fashion, every one of them giving blows or kisses in equal measure, but he took all those things in stride, for that was how he learned, first as a young carpenter’s apprentice, then a brawny marine—through touch. That was how Heather and the rosy-haired girl whose name he can not remember fell into his hands. Their were the inevitable squabbles, of course. Tozer was averse to sharing a woman, disgusted by the very idea of it. Tozer knew his fair share of bigamists—the regular army and the Royal Navy were crawling with those types; it’s an easy arrangement for men constantly on the move—and he didn’t want to be one of them. Not out of any misplaced moral sense but because it was in his nature to go against the grain. But, in time, they all reached an understanding, twining together in a dark, rat-infested hold of a ship they managed to smuggle her aboard, or in the barracks while others slept or pretended to do so. It wasn’t like they were married; they benefited from something that, if not conjugal, was fulfilling in a way words could not express, and wholly unique to themselves. Nothing like it could have existed between any other people at any other time. In these stolen moments they reached a greater understanding, and Tozer saw for the first time the beating hearts of those he loved. Hickey pulls him closer, his chapped lips parting, and Tozer unravels, what has taken years to build up now crumbling down in the span of a breath. Ever since their flight from Terror Camp, the two of them found that they no longer needed to hide their relationship, and it was their newfound ability to do whatever they wanted in the open that worried him more than any clandestine meeting in the bowels of a dying ship. Satisfying his desires so wantonly, so shamelessly, seemed obsence to Tozer. It was one of the many newfound privileges of mutiny, but truly coming to know Hickey was not one of them. Tozer was confused by the seaman’s erratic moods, saccharine endearments turning to utter scorn with an inhuman easiness. Hickey’s derision of Heather, shamelessly followed by his lips clasping over his, is just another example of his capricious cruelty. Something Tozer often faced, but was never able to comprehend.

Perhaps this is why, besides pragmatism and expediency, he puts up with the little caulker’s mate: Cornelius Hickey alone is incomprehensible, a puzzle begging to be solved.

But how can he do so, when he can scarcely pitch a tent without collapsing, when those he loves are devolving into a cloud of phantom sensations, and his decaying redcoat hangs so loosely about his famished frame so that it’s more like a peasants smock? These grim reminders of mortality make every encounter all the more precious. 

They are flowing now, racing together. Tozer cradling Hickey, bringing him down to the ground, his hands slipping through the greatcoat and feeling the thin barrier of cotton covering his flesh like a second skin. Hickey is warm to the touch, his whole body burning feverishly, but he is anything but sick. The greatcoat is thrown away and his spidery arms embrace Tozer, clinging to him with a wiry strength. The caulker’s mate’s passions have not atrophied during his still moments, as Tozer had feared. He tears off Tozer’s slops before he knows it, and his fingers are scrabbling over the redcoat, swollen fingers fumbling at the gilded buttons. This wretched tableau vivant has come to life, and a hand between his legs tells Tozer that his mate is certainly no fucking plant. The marine laughs and pushes him away, rising on his knees and unbuttoning his coat with a deliberate slowness. Impatient, panting on a bed of mangy furs and soiled linens, Hickey reaches for him, but Tozer bats his hands away. He wants this saint in threadbare undergarments to beg. Not to the beast, but to him. Tozer allows the coat to fall from his shoulders, and he waits, arms hanging loosely on either side. 

“Sol,” the diminutive mutineer pleads, so small and fragile beneath his shadow. “I want you now. Please, Sol, please.” 

Hickey is surprisingly pliant beneath him, yielding to Tozer without complaint. He can impale him right here, right now. Like hell he’s an understudy. But he checks himself; not a small feat when he’s rubbing against another man’s thigh. Their flesh has become far too sensitive for their desires. Every grasp leaves a bruise, every scratch a cut. He is aware, more than ever, of his lover's potential to be a wellspring of blood. No amount of grease can preserve Hickey from what he would otherwise want to do to him, so he makes a compromise. He turns him on his side, lays beside him, and the two of them are like a pair grubby silver spoons left behind by a neglectful steward. Hickey's lost none of his canninness; he closes his legs, tightly pressing the prick between his thighs, and grinds his hips against Tozer's. All without being prompted. Tozer groans and moans in his ear, the only noise he needs to hear. He knows full well he shouldn't be doing this, not now, not when maintaining his daily routine is a struggle, when his crossbelts humble his shoulders and the butt of his musket drags across the frozen gravel, marking a single furrow in the lifeless soil. To hell with it, he's doing this anyway. The consequences will be sorted out later like they always are. Rutting against Hickey as if he can fuck the madness out of him, he squeezes his eyes shut and savors every fleeting sensation. Cloth over cloth, flesh against flesh, a hand grasping a stirring hip, a sliver of flesh and the bone beneath. Tozer unbuttons the top of Hickey's long underwear, peeling it away from his heaving chest. The marine's open palm, so accustomed to leather and steel, glides over minute hairs and crescent scars, some old, some new, rising and falling from the crest of his belly to the nest of hair below. He gets him off with languid strokes, not wanting to show how much this means to him, and only really jerks him off when he's about to finish. They come together that way. Hickey doesn't say anything, doesn't make a peep, and Tozer wonders if he even enjoyed it at all. 

Cornelius Hickey's stomach is streaked with spunk; the marine had raked his deck, alright. While Tozer hitches up his trousers he spots out of the corner of his eye Hickey picking up a white handkerchief with the initials FRMC neatly embroidered in blue along the side. Hickey distractedly wipes himself off, flings the token of some Irish sister aside, and burrows under the covers, spreading his greatcoat over himself for extra warmth. He peers out of his cozyness at Tozer, who is just beginning to get to his feet. "Won't you join me?"

Tozer pauses. There's no denying the weariness in his marrow, and on top of that the usual post fuck drowsiness. He can emerge as a sleepwalker among his shambling mates or remain vulnerable and alone with Hickey. The latter opportunity would be perfect if it weren't for Des Voeux's baleful presence. Yet Tozer is sorely tempted. The Erebite, he suspects, wouldn't dare try anything with Hickey so near. All the men are thoroughly cowed by their self-appointed prince; they never raise their voices around him, and speak in hushed tones during his absence. What's more, Armitage, Pilkington, and Manson are still around—two Terrors and a marine, good men he can trust. They'll protect him. (Although he'd rather have Heather at his back.) Tozer settles down beside Hickey and pulls the covers over him. His cast off slops, and the bayonet within, are close by. He stares at the long horizontal beam holding up the tent, his head feeling heavy, mind roiling.

"My reign won't last forever," Hickey whispers, as if Tozer is privileged to hear this admission. "When my body withers and fades, I will dive beneath the ice with the  _ Tuunbaq  _ and live in wonder and glory forever. It's a shame you can't follow. But don't feel bad. No one else can."

What the fuck do you say to something like that? Nothing, nothing at all, but Tozer feels he must say something. He can't help it. He always gets sentimental after a good tumble, no matter who he is with, and Hickey is no exception. He dredges up a condolence. 

"I'm sorry about Billy."

“It’s alright, we still have his bones.”

Hickey quietly inhales and exhales, until he hardly seems to be breathing at all. Holding his own breath, Tozer turns over and resumes his favorite pastime: watching Cornelius Hickey. He's sound asleep, more human in oblivion than he ever was awake. The only tell-tale sign of his being alive is the near imperceptible rise and fall of the covers over his breast. It occurs to Tozer that he can end this lunacy right now and take the rest of the men back to the ships. He can plunge the bayonet into Hickey's heart, killing him instantly, or better yet, tie his wrists and ankles together, gag him with a belt, and strangle him. That way he can pass it off as natural causes, and he's confident that Goodsir is too beat to make a comment about any bruises found around the neck. He's looking at Hickey very closely now. The Terror seems to have shed whole decades off in his sleep, appearing so young with his closed eyes and pursed lips, like a cadaverous cherub, and Tozer knows he cannot kill him. Not when he reposes as Heather had so long ago. Tozer gives up his murderous designs and joins him. 

And goes down like a lead weight into an all-encompassing greyness without end. An overcast night sky glowering over gas lights, he thinks, but there is nothing reminiscent of humanity. Tozer’s here, if not in blood then most definitely in spirit. Not feeling anything; knowing only of his presence. There's no way to orient himself in a place like this, so he can’t tell where the light is coming from. It’s a little pinprick in the clouds with its own lambent halo. The Morning Star, perhaps. Its flickering, the shifting paleness describing a hazy transit, and there’s no telling where it’s going. It feels so distant; his immaterial form aches for it. Wherever it is, it's lonely passage never escapes him. As if called by his profound longing, the star wavers uncertainly, then it's close, dawning on him. 

The star dissolves into distinct, flickering shapes. All wavering before him, except for the massive vanguard lumbering on all fours. Fear is a curious thing to feel without a body—without spongy pink lungs to contract or balls to shrivel. Like a disembodied vertigo. They are still there when he refocuses, a solemn procession to parts unknown; its constituents both familiar and bizarre. There's the thing, alternately man and beast, ponderously treading along thin air. Radiant and white, with nary a scratch on its pristine hide. The same cannot be said of its followers. Henry Foster Collins is here, or at least what's left of him. Still wearing that floppy sweater with all its creases and folds, now with the savage addition of a dark gash across the stomach. Collins tiptoes over his dangling entrails, careful not to trip himself up. His guts are shining among the shadows, like scarlet garlands dragged across a charcoal backdrop. What shocks Tozer into tangibility, however, is the appearance of his best friend, Heather. The marine is looking pretty alright, in spite of everything. The gaping hole in his head is rather unfortunate, but its nothing a sizeable hat can’t fix. Tozer’s seen men with the pox traipsing about looking much worse. He approaches Heather, grasping his hand like he always did, saying that he should really consider wearing a shako all the time and making light of his injury—say, man, it must be nice having some ventilation upstairs! Heather ignores him, and Tozer worries his joke was made in poor taste. He hurriedly apologizes, but Heather’s glossy fish eyes cut him short. No comprehension, no recognition. Heather gazes past him as if he were a beggar on the street. Tozer lets him go. 

Heather doesn’t drift away; nobody’s moving. Tozer moves to the front and sees someone new: the flower girl. Intact and unmarred, and no different from the day he had last seen her waving a vermillion handkerchief on a crowded Greenhithe quay. She was wearing her mottled green dress then—my old gown of moss, she'd call it with a wry affection—but the humor is gone, and so is the dress. A shapeless gown the color and texture of fresh ivory flows past her and pools around her feet. It's a wonder she can walk so serenely and perfectly, without hesitation or falter, with all that silk dragging behind her; her feet obscured, so that she's apparently levitating. Her hair's all done up and braided, and there are swaying tendrils interwoven with lillies. Tozer is transfixed. Every part of him is ready to receive her, and his eyes gaze upon no one else. That is, until her voice echoes, "Do you see him?" and he follows her long, raised arm, with the clinging white sleeve draping from it and its folds hanging over a slate nothingness, and sees Cornelius Hickey sitting astride the beast. Naked, his pale thighs match the thing's hue, so that human flesh and monstrous hide are indistinguishable. Fused together, as it were, by a blacksmith possessed by an inhuman skill. It's almost impossible to tell where one ends and another begins. The two of them are in full health: the beast round and wide, Hickey red and firm. It's hard to believe one was shot down from the rigging and the other punished as a boy onboard the same ship not too long ago. Tozer calls up to him, but Hickey does not deign to spare him a glance. He’s looking forwards, always forwards, his grisly attendants drifting along his heels. “Won’t you join him?” she asks Tozer expectantly, the disconcerting current under her voice taking him off guard. “No,” he says instinctively; he doesn’t really have to think about it. “No.”

The arm drops, then rises. Tozer backs away, but there is nowhere else to go. Her once tranquil face is twitching horribly, contorting and twisting between her outstretched hands, and he braces himself, expecting the cool tips of her fingertips brushing against his cheeks. But they are hot, their feel swirling around him, and he grabs her wrists and pushes them away. Her fingers are gone, black clouds billowing from where they’ve been severed at the roots, and her blood runs over his own clutching hands. He lets go of her, palms scalded, his hands smeared with what looks like ink stains. She’s diminishing, becoming vague in the void, her face a mask of running wax. Tozer feels the cry wrenched from his throat but cannot hear it. Closing his eyes, unable to bear it any longer, shutting himself away with his fear and shame. Only when the lingering blood dissipates, and the sickening warmth without and disgust within goes away, does he risk opening them.

They are all together again, except the lady with the flowers is now in the lead. A wicker basket filled with lillies is in her hands; she reaches in periodically and tosses them behind her, without looking back, and the pale petals are trod over by indifference. A funeral procession, he thinks, or maybe that of a wedding. They fade away, but the petals remain—a phosphorescent trail going to places he cannot possibly imagine. 

Darkness, then light. Dissolution and fading in.

Everything is still enveloped in a pale greyness when he wakes up besides Hickey, who softly snores and curls around him without a care in the world, but a cool, rising wind signals the coming advent of day. The flaps of their tent billows outwards and he sees the rest of the mutineers, spread apart yet intrinsically close like knots on a string, wearing their collections of dirty rags and circling round each other, but none daring to get too close. Weapons are clenched tightly by those who have them. Tozer looks on with detached interest... 

They are perhaps the last human remnants of Sir John Franklin’s expedition—misshapen and awkward shapes in an empty land. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Globe Mutiny of 1824 is a real event, the opening quote being an actual excerpt from an 1828 book written by two survivors who witnessed the mutiny and survived its aftermath. The full text can be found on Project Gutenberg, which is a great place for finding firsthand accounts and other historical items. I've been working on this fic on and off for an embarrassingly long time, but I always had the same idea in mind. I've really become fascinated with Art Nouveau lately, and a lot of that shows in the style of this fic, I think. In particular, I found this article to be very informative: [Horror and Art Nouveau](https://www.kosmorama.org/en/kosmorama/artikler/art-nouveau-production-design-and-contemporary-horror-film) . I've seen the first two movies mentioned by this article, with Phibes being a longtime favorite. I definitely recommend watching that movie before reading the spoiler filled article. Slowly but surely I'm finishing things, and will finish The Matchmaker, eventually. That will be my New Years resolution! 
> 
> [Globe Mutiny](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28955/28955-h/28955-h.htm)
> 
> [The Abominable Dr. Phibes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9QfsQB_He0g&t=150s)
> 
> [Tozer](https://visionsnorth.blogspot.com/2015/09/solomon-tozer-royal-marine.html)


End file.
